


In Which Tony Stark's Got Your Back

by kaeorin



Series: Stark Tower: Avengers Drabbles [15]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 22:33:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19412767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaeorin/pseuds/kaeorin
Summary: It's the anniversary of your mother's death. You try to keep it hidden from the others (because, after all, loss is basically a pre-req for being an Avenger) but you're not quite successful.





	In Which Tony Stark's Got Your Back

**Author's Note:**

> This is kind of pointless and self-indulgent, but I needed to write _something_ to clear out the cobwebs and I've been thinking about my own mom lately.

In the morning, your body seemed to know what day it was before it even fully knew that you were awake. Your stomach felt like a lead weight, and your eyelids refused to open for a moment or two. It was tempting just to roll over and stay there in bed. You didn’t _have_ to do anything today—there were no missions, no paperwork, no previous obligations. There was technically nothing stopping you from holing up in your room all day long, as long as none of your teammates came looking for you. And if ever there was a day that you were justified in being a miserable, lazy lump under blankets, surely it was today.

Two years.

Two years ago today you had lost the most important person in your life. 

It wasn’t even a part of your Tragic Backstory as an Avenger or anything, either: just a shitty but normal part of life. You’d been told that there was nothing that anyone could do, no one to blame or hunt down. Just...one morning, you had woken up and your mother was gone. No warning, no long deterioration of her health, nothing. Just a weakened vessel in her brain that ruptured in her sleep and took her away from you. 

Even as you contemplated the risks and benefits of hiding in your room all day, you found yourself pushing the covers back and forcing your legs over the edge. It was a silly thought. There was too much to do—maybe not out of obligation, but definitely out of...appreciation for life. And she—your mom—had never been the kind of person to hide in her bed. She loved life. She loved doing things. If she knew you were spending today being a lazy lump, she’d probably be disappointed. So you forced yourself through your morning routine: brush teeth, shower, dress, and then finally trudge down into the kitchen. Pancakes were...a thing. 

Last week, before the grim spectre of death had returned to roost on your shoulders, you’d bought the supplies to make pancakes. Growing up, that was kind of a tradition you’d had with your mom—or...maybe not a tradition. Every once in a while, though, whether it was a school day or the weekend, you’d wake up to the sound of her moving around the kitchen of your tiny apartment, humming to herself as she made pancakes. 

Today, you didn’t do much humming, but you did set about making a batch on your own. There was something meditative about the process of measuring and mixing and pouring and flipping. The only problem was that space of time between pouring and flipping. That was when your mind started to wander. For the most part, you were able to stay focused on positive things, instead of that grim resentment that often threatened to creep in. But even the positive things made your eyes sting. It wasn’t fair.

“Hey, pancakes!” Clint’s voice came from behind you, in the doorway to the kitchen. You took a moment to pull yourself together before smiling at him over your shoulder. “Are these for us?”

“Of course, who else?” Your voice was a lot lighter than your mood. “Dig in!” 

“You are the most beautiful person, you know that?” He let his hand brush against your lower back on his way past you to get a plate. Of course the compliment had more to do with the pancakes than anything to do with you, but you let yourself smile a little anyway. He piled a large stack onto his plate and doused them in syrup, but didn’t immediately sit. “Coffee?”

“Oh god, yes, please,” you answered. Caffeine probably wasn’t going to pull you out of this weird foggy mental state, but you wanted it anyway. He took care of that familiar ritual, and then leaned against the counter beside you, eating his pancakes as he waited. You didn’t talk much; you liked that about him, especially today. As you cooked, and as he waited, the scent of coffee began to fill the room, and apparently attracted several of the others. Nat wandered in, and Steve, and Thor. Clint filled two mugs and placed one in front of you before taking his own and clearing away from the counter. You heard him encouraging the others to get something to eat, and each of them made an appropriate amount of fuss over you as they did. Others filtered in over time, and even Tony showed up. By the time your mixing bowl was finally empty, most of the team was crowded around the table for breakfast. There wasn’t a lot of conversation, but...it was there, and most of the team was caught up enough in it that they didn’t seem to notice you weren’t joining them at the table.

It was kind of nice, seeing how your mom’s tradition still brought people together, but you weren’t quite in the mental space to interact with any of them at the moment. Your body still felt heavy, despite the coffee and the pancakes you’d eaten while cooking. You weren’t going to be good company today, and that wasn’t fair to any of them. They’d all lost people—that was practically a prerequisite to being an Avenger. And none of them needed to take entire days off like you apparently did. 

It should have been comforting, listening to the team eat and chat and carry on like it was just another day. Because it was just another day. Because that was how time worked. Days came one after the other and carried the living further away from the dead. All of the people sitting at that table were far enough away from most of their losses that they could get through the day. Someday you’d probably be there too. Today, though, it was too much. You made quick work of the dishes you’d dirtied and started to leave the room.

“You’re not eating?” It was Tony calling after you. You tried to make your face neutral before you turned around to shrug at him.

“I ate while I was cooking. All the ugly ones. Gotta hide the evidence, you know?” He was studying you too closely. His eyes were so sharp that it felt like they were getting under your skin, into your head. You took a step backwards and, without thinking, held your hands out as though to ward him off. God. He’d lost both of his parents at the same time, and way more horrifically than you had, but you couldn’t remember ever seeing him sulk because of it. There was no way he could ever find out what had you so off-kilter today. 

He tilted his head and furrowed his brows at you, but thankfully didn’t step any closer. You waved your hands to shoo him back towards the kitchen table and attempted a smile. “I’m just gonna take a walk, okay? Enjoy breakfast. If those pancakes aren’t gone by the time I get back, I’m going to assume it’s because I suck at cooking.” You didn’t wait for him to respond, but you _did_ somehow keep yourself from straight-up running to the elevator. Small victories.

***

Maybe it was cliché, to be standing here at the foot of her grave and staring morosely at her headstone, but...it felt right. The logical side of you knew that she wasn’t here. If there were such thing as a soul, or a spirit, or...whatever, then there’s no way that it’d be in that box down there, rotting away along with her body. It’d be free somewhere, maybe in some kind of afterlife or reborn as something else or just wandering the earth as a ghost. If there weren’t such things, then she still wouldn’t be there in the grave: her awareness was gone. Cemeteries had always bothered you for that exact reason. 

But there was still something almost comforting about knowing where her physical remains were. The large, tangible part of her—not her soul, maybe, but the rest of her—was right here. You were standing near the woman who had held you, hugged you, comforted you, kissed you. If there had been more privacy here, or just fewer people milling about, you might have given in to the temptation to curl up on the ground and pretend she could still hold you. You were far too old for that, and far too large, but it hurt. 

You tried to force yourself to focus on the good things—the jokes over dinner, the conversations in the car or on the train, the laughter, the love—but the tears came on too quickly so instead you tried to make your mind go blank. You did allow yourself to crouch, though, so you could be more or less eye-level with her headstone as you gripped your knees and stared straight ahead. The world was too big without her. Today the future felt empty and bleak, like just an endless stretch of days that you’d have to spend without her. 

Maybe you should talk? While you were here, being all cliché and silly, you could talk to the stone. That’s what people did in movies, wasn’t it? You could pour your heart out to that hunk of granite and probably weep uncontrollably and then come to some perfect epiphany that made everything feel better. But your tongue was too thick in your mouth. You sighed and reached down to pluck a handful of grass, only to let it fall back down onto the grave.

“What are you doing here alone?” 

Your body reacted almost before your mind had finished figuring out who was talking to you. You shot up to your feet—a little too quickly. Tony’s face blurred and swam before your eyes for several long moments, until some of the blood returned to your head. You blinked slowly, and when you opened your eyes, Tony was standing much closer, his arms extended as though to catch you if you fell. You laughed weakly.

“Tony. You scared me. What are you doing here?”

“I asked you first.” He smiled at you, but his voice was firm. “Why are you here by yourself, letting anybody sneak up on you?”

What was there to say to that? You resisted the urge to rub at your eyes, unwilling to look any more like a weeping child, and shrugged one shoulder. “It’s...my mom.” You gestured awkwardly at the headstone. It was hard to figure out how to put the words together in the right order, though, or at least to do so without revealing just how dumb you were being today. 

Tony’s eyes scanned the stone, taking in all the details listed there. When his eyes fell on that final date, his eyebrows knit together. “Kid...” He stepped closer, still reaching for you. “You should have said something.”

“What for?” Imagine starting _that_ discussion over breakfast. ‘Hey, guys, hate to interrupt your cheerful morning, but today is the anniversary of my single and solitary loss and I’m feeling kinda sad. Got any tips?’ You brushed at your cheeks to get rid of any errant tears and tried not to laugh at the thought.

“So we could come here with you. You know we’ve got your back, right? We’re a team.” He slipped his arm around you. Ordinarily, neither of you were particularly touchy-feely, but you let yourself lean into his solidness.

“It’s...dumb.” You didn’t normally struggle for words like this. “You’ve all lost so many people, and you don’t need a parade of superheroes for every anniversary.” Maybe you were clinging just a little too hard to this “I’m being stupid” narrative, but it was probably the only thing that kept you speaking coherently, instead of blubbering into Tony’s chest. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

He was quiet for a long time. It was hard to blame him, really. He wasn’t normally one for long heartfelt conversations. The two of you stood there quietly, mostly just looking at your mother’s headstone. You continued to alternate between trying to remember things about her and trying not to think about anything at all. There really wasn’t one single solution to the problem that was...today. But Tony’s presence was helping. His arm around your back was helping. Standing here made you feel a little less like you were spinning out of control, drifting off of the planet. You ventured a furtive glance at his face, wondering how he’d respond if you told him that. As you did, however, he shifted, and his eyes met yours. You looked away again quickly, your cheeks burning.

“You can be fine,” he said slowly. “That’s fine. A lot of us make the conscious decision to be fine. But you don’t have to. If you need to take a day to not be fine, we’ll get it.” He jostled you gently, drawing your gaze back up to his face. His smile was warm. “And anyway, you know Steve’s a sucker for teary consolations. He’s going to be crushed that you kept this from him. You really could have milked this. I’m seeing mugs of hot cocoa, long whispered conversations, big soulful puppy-dog eyes.”

Laughter bubbled up through your chest and you snorted despite yourself. He was right, and imagining Tony’s caricature of Steve trying to comfort you through the day...did actually make you feel better. He squeezed your shoulder. 

“You need some cocoa?” He sounded tense, but when you looked up at him, his face was soft. 

“No. This is good.” You sniffled once, and then somehow found the courage to rest your head against his shoulder. It was an unfamiliar feeling, really, letting yourself lean on someone else rather than holding yourself up, but it...didn’t suck. He tightened his arm around you a bit and pulled you in claser. It kept you steady, told you that he didn’t mind your weight against him. From somewhere behind you, you could hear the sounds of children running, shrieking, laughing as they chased each other between the graves. Above you, birds called out to each other from among the rustling leaves. Life was still happening. You took a deep breath and let it out slowly around the lump in your throat. 

Tony pulled away, but reached to take your hands as he turned you to face him head-on. “Listen. I don’t, uh, know what you believe. Or what you need to hear. But you do a _lot_ of good in the world, okay? I never knew her, but I have to assume she’d be proud.”

Fresh tears welled up in your eyes at his words, and you tried to duck your head but he reached to cup your face in his palms. The gentle expression in his eyes somehow kept you from feeling stupid, even as he brushed his thumb against your cheek to catch a tear. “Thank you,” you whispered, and you weren’t sure you’d ever meant anything more.

Maybe there was something in your expression that caught him off guard, because his eyes skittered away from yours for a moment. But then he looked at you again, and your breath caught in your chest. “Anytime.” He continued to brush his thumb in light arcs against your skin. You closed your eyes.

The birds went on singing.


End file.
